Too Curst
by Meladracis
Summary: The curse is broken. Not everyone wanted it that way; and Happily Ever After requires a smarter-than-your-average-peasant-girl to learn queencraft. For that, she'll need to learn to be a courtier. A courtier, her new husband is not; but if she can get into the good graces of Maestro Forte, she'll have a ready teacher for the cut-throat world of Aquitainia's royal court.
1. Chapter 1

_Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God's sending that way; for it is said, 'God sends a curst cow short horns;' but to a cow too curst he sends none. - _Much Ado About Nothing 2.1.20-22

**Summary: **The curse is broken. Not everyone wanted it that way; and Happily Ever After requires a smarter-than-your-average-peasant-girl to learn queencraft. For that, she'll need to learn to be a courtier. A courtier, her new husband is not; but if she can get into the good graces of Maestro Forte, she'll have a ready teacher for the cut-throat world of Aquitainia's royal court.

Subplots include: what exactly _does_ happen when a person's been under a curse for ten years? What gave Forte his magical powers, and do any of the other formerly-cursed servants have them? Who was that Enchantress anyway, and why is she so fond of cursing little kids?

**Forenotes****: **Hi everyone, it's the infamous Mel here. I say 'infamous' because I used to be pretty active in this fandom some years ago; I wrote a fic called Blackbird Chronicles. Then I wrote a fic called Chiaroscuro. This fic you are about to read is my second attempt at the concept behind Chiaroscuro, so if you liked that one and wished it hadn't disappeared, you should give this one a read.

**Formatting note:** I'm trying a new, less traditional way of formatting by changing PoV whenever it feels right, and putting it under a header, Game of Thrones style. This helps me keep focussed, so hopefully the story is also.

* * *

**Glossary of Real and Imaginary Words**

**Veit** is Fife's first name.

**Aquitainia** - the country where BatB takes place. Fairy Tale France, basically. Language: Aquitine. Demonym: Aquitine. I will be using normal French.

**Etrusca** - Fairy Tale Italy. Language: Etruscan. Demonym: Etruscan. I will be using normal Italian.

I did this so I could world build better, and also to make it so each Disney fairy tale can interact on a country-to-country level. I am working on a map, and also trying to figure out how we used to sneak URLs into this thing. But there IS a map on my dA account, which is inkybee. Should be easy to find. Aquitainia is the blue country on the western landmass, the one with the two cities labelled 'Maretoile' and 'Point-Dauphin'. I'm still working on a more complete map with labels and things, sorry this one is a bit half-done.

**ottavino** - What the rest of the world calls a piccolo.

**calcant** - Someone who operates the bellows of a pipe organ. Pipe organs need a continuous supply of air pumped into them to work, and only began to be powered by non-humans in the 19th century.

**Treble A** - A5 It's a pretty high note, and one of the defining notes of a soprano's range. It's not the _highest_ of a soprano range, but it's a note every soprano is expected to easily hit.

**Taci** - 'shut up' in Italian.

* * *

_**Fife**_

On the balcony of the West Wing, a happy reunion was going on. Death had been thwarted, and the curse broken. Even the torrential spring rain was letting up, even the pipe organ, these long months a broken and abandoned ruin, was once again restored. As rosy glimmers of magic wicked across the dark stones, making them light again, there were cries of gaiety and relief throughout the castle. All was well, all were overjoyed, all would live happily ever after.

All but the slender boy on the floor of the room that owned the balcony, holding in his arms the fallen form of his lover, mentor, and master. The lifting of the curse had transformed him from a brass ottavino—his favoured instrument—to once again a creature trapped in the exquisite ranginess of a castrati's perpetual youth. Unlike the stars that graced the stages and trod the boards of opera houses, this boy was not beautiful—his voice was too breathy, his features clumsy and oversized, his eyes small and squinting—but he was a sweet-tempered boy, as plain boys often are, and he cared deeply for the man he was currently holding close.

_Please don't be dead_, he prayed to whatever god would listen, burying his face in his lover's cool throat.

_**Forte**_

It was cold.

He hated the cold.

There was a dark woman standing before him, her eyes shining like his music, clad in the shadows between notes.

Why couldn't he rise? '…Lady?' he said, voice feeling far away and difficult. Was this a dream? No, he never dreamed of this. Never _saw_ anything, in his dreams. Certainly not… his Lady. She had to be.

Her red lips smiled like the curve of a fermata.

'You,' she returned, softly, eyes gleaming. Her voice was soft, sonorous. In the dim light of the dream, he could see features that his Lady would not, he was sure, have: pointed face, pointed ears, spiralling horns….

'The Enchantress,' he realised. She gave him the tiniest nod, a fairy's smile of amused approval.

'Yes,' she said, turning, sweeping her hand and clearing away the shadows, showing him the West Wing, the restored castle, the balcony…

His fallen body, Fife weeping over it, a tiny pocket of sorrow in the throng of joy. Forte felt a bitter curl to his lips as he realised the truth. And wasn't that fitting, he thought; he had ever brought darkness to joy, dampened it, rained on everyone's sunshine whether he meant to or not. Even his death would do that. Well, it served them right.

Still… he turned to look at his Lady, his beautiful Lady, restored again, standing straight and tall, the finest set of pipes that he had ever played. He could almost hear her, breathy yes, but still hear her music…. To his surprise, the flash of his green magic flickered through her pipes for a moment, almost too quickly to see. He drew back a hand he hadn't even realised extended out toward her, looking at it, the green tendrils winding around it, a musical staff made living and animate… he looked at the Enchantress, whose eyes glimmered that same green.

'You took the sword pointed at you, and began to wield it yourself,' she continued. 'This… _intrigues _me.' She glanced at him, her eyes gleaming like jewels, like no human thing. 'No human has ever done such a thing.'

_That_ surprised him. 'I was unaware I was wielding anything. I thought…' he trailed off contemplating whether he ought to reveal such a vulnerability; before realizing he was dead, and the dead were past such worries, '…I thought _being_ the organ was all that made it happen. I played her before, but to _be_ her… suddenly it was as breathing. It was… it was everything I had ever wanted.' He found himself actually smiling. 'And you gave that gift to me,' he ended, half to himself, before looking up at her. 'I never wanted the curse to break, for that.'

Surprise lifted her arched brows. 'Never?' she breathed.

'I missed the sun, at times,' he confessed. 'I missed moving, after a while. But… yes, I could give it all up. I could give up _everything,_ if I could only keep my music.'

'Hm,' she noised, looking over the scene once more, gaze contemplative. 'Who is the boy that weeps for you?'

'Fife,' he answered. 'Another failure, like me. My calcant.'

'Your lover?'

His lip curled. 'Love!' he spat it like a curse. 'Faugh! _No_, not that.' He shuddered at the thought. _'Never_ that.'

She hummed again, that short little note that meant everything and nothing.

'…Very well,' she said at last, with a tone of finality; and he, quite suddenly, woke up on the floor, Fife draped over him.

'Maestro?' came the quavering address, when Forte's chest rose in breath again, and Forte opened his eyes. To his satisfaction, Fife's first reaction was to pull back, away from his master, hugging his own spindly legs instead, looking at Forte with those brown eyes. 'Y-you're alive!' His nervous shiver of a laugh following after, as it always did.

Forte struggled up, his body tingling as though it had been numb, muscles feeling weak with it. His heart was pounding, and he simply sat for some time, breathing.

Up, he had to get up, he realised dimly; just now, that didn't seem very interesting.

The Enchantress had decided he was intriguing.

He was the first to turn a Curse into his own power.

Raising a hand, he glanced at his fingers, and tried to remember what it had been like, to reach for his Lady… she called to him in a whisper, and he wasn't touching her. The feeling was fleeting, and it flickered out like a dying ember—but when he cried out in frustration, the light came back. He paused. She silenced, and there was darkness.

Perhaps he'd begin simply; he rose to his feet—and the reality of it hit him all at once, as he caught sight of his hands. _His hands_, his feet, the ability to _move_ of his own volition. He turned and looked at Fife, hovering with uncertainty born of years of bearing Forte's unpredictable moods. Forte held out a hand.

'Dance with me.' But the dark smile promised Fife it was not a gavotte that he offered; the boy practically climbed all over him, shivering in delight like the overgrown puppy he was. For once, however, Forte didn't object; the rapture of touch was too much to bear, almost, it was so _good_. He lost himself in the satin of wet lips and the warmth of human skin… but not here, not the cold of the floor. Cold reminded him of the past decade, spent numb inside lead pipes.

He pulled Fife into the antechamber, by the fire still roaring in the hearth, and in moments they were a tangle of limbs in the armchair, hands running over each other, pushing off jackets and waistcoats, tearing off shirts and breeches without care for their survival. Touch, smell, taste… it had been ten years since Forte had these luxuries, and he was a sensual creature.

Fife's staccato cry was piercing when Forte's fingers brushed over his nipples, and the composer paused. Fife's pitch had never been so perfect. Looking down at the boy, he delicately took one nipple in his fingers, and plucked.

The boy cried out again. Had the curse given him what he so lacked before? For Fife tried hard but he was… well, there was no kind way to say it.

'You've never had _pitch_ before, Veit.'

And Forte was not kind. Before Fife could even take a breath to reply, Forte tried both at once, perhaps with a bit of de Sade's joy. Fife _screamed_.

'That's A,' Forte said, and Fife was startled from the sensation—by one far more important.

'What do you mean,' he said, carefully, pushing himself up, 'A? Which A?' He hardly dared to hope. 'I thought I was fla—AH!'

'Treble A,' Forte said, after hearing it again. He looked down, thoughtful. 'I may yet be able to stand your voice, Veit.' Forte didn't wait for Fife to reply, before renewing his caresses—this time, approaching them as though Fife were an instrument. The notes were all so perfect; and, no matter what he tried, Forte could not get any trace of Fife's previous broken pitch.

It took him an hour longer, and pulling Fife's orgasm from him, to realise that being able to _tell_ was also not something he had been able to do so perfectly, before.

'Stay,' he said, wiping his hands on the nearest thing, getting to his feet. Fife clung to him.

'But—'

'Stay,' Forte peeled him off unceremoniously, going to the large chest that contained all of his papers, ripping it open. 'I need to write.' He dug through for paper, ink, pen.

'Ten years, Maestro!' Fife protested from the hearth, thighs still too tremulous to hold his weight.

_**Fife**_

'_Taci!'_ Forte barked, and Fife silenced, peering fearfully up at the pipe organ, which had stirred at Forte's anger, echoing beneath her master's words. Fife swallowed, and began to gather up the clothes, retreating up the short flight of steps into the bedroom. He knew to wait, but… he hesitated, before beginning to get dressed again. He couldn't sing while Forte was composing, not in the West Wing, anyway. But there was a whole castle, and he could go somewhere else…

'Get out!' came the sudden, bass roar of his master, the purer vowels of Etruscan somehow making it more frightening than if it had been said in Aquitine. 'Out! _Out! All of you out! I am composing! Get out of my music room!'_


	2. Chapter 2

**Forenotes**

_For any migraineurs reading this: representation ahead~_

_For everyone else: The 'demon headaches' are reference to migraines, which frequently come with sensitivity to sound, light, and inability to balance (which also usually leads to nausea)._

_New countries that are mentioned! First of all, I am still working on that map. I'm sosorryohgod, this is the first time I'm using photoshop._

_**Albion** - Fairy tale England (and (violently conquered and subjugated) Scotland). Bitter enemies with Aquitainia, and most of the rest of Summersea. Borders Krammerstang on its east, along the mountains. Language: Albish. Demonym: Albish. _

_**Aeustchland** - Cinderella. This one is a little harder. It's got elements of Netherlands but also Germany? Sweden? This is where the parallels to our countries start getting blurry. Language: Aeustch (Dutch). Demonym: Aeustch. Aeustchland borders Aquitainia, and because their shared northern border is swamp, they've been fighting over exactly where the northern half of the border is for years. This is why they're 'bitter enemies'._

_**Krammerstang** - Snow White. More Germany, but with Switzerland. This is also the homeland of Pinocchio, not that he comes into this story. Language: Kramman (German; note Kramman is the lingua franca in this world). Demonym: Kramman._

_**Argany** - Aurora, Maleficent (not Philip, he's from a different country). Some weird mix of Germany, Wales, and Ireland I guess. Argany, Aeustchland, and Krammarstang are really blurry and mixed up because they don't really coincide with anything but the Grimm tales so it's like, really German but also not? But this is exactly why I'm not matching these up exactly and I want you to know that. Language: Lost. Kramman is their language now. Demonym: Arganian. Argany has the dubious honour of bordering Faerie/The Mysterious Moorlands, and it's argued the entirety of Argany's Greenwood may as well be Faerie (though the humans living in the forest would throw a punch at you if you said that to them)._

* * *

**Adam**

If he hadn't been in such a good mood, he would have roared back—but all things considered, he was just happy Forte was _alive_. Hugging him, Adam was not deterred by the way the composer pushed at him.

'You can wait a minute,' Adam protested with a smile, 'I thought you were dead, after all.'

'I was,' Forte replied, with that nonchalance that meant it was supposed to sting. 'If you'll excuse me, _Votre Majesté…'_

Adam paused, drawing back and looking at him. 'Altesse,' he corrected, frowning, and Forte's smirk threw him even more off centre; it always did, damn the man for it.

'I believe you are one and twenty now, are you not?' came the soft query, the raise of brow; with that, Forte turned away, pacing with the familiar snap of his lacquered heels, gesturing with a hand in that signature Etruscan way. 'It is time to take the throne from your Lord Protector, Adam. You are the King, after all.' He glanced at Belle, 'And you even have a _wife_ now.'

Belle flinched, not understanding why, but Adam knew as well as she didn't; a feral growl, inhuman and warning, rose in his chest. He didn't even notice it shouldn't have been there.

'Don't,' he warned. Forte deigned to look over at him, and the pipe organ growled her own warning, the composer's eyes flashing green. Forte's eyes weren't green….

'Don't what, Majesté?' Forte asked innocently. 'She _is_ to be your wife, isn't she? Or are you going to do the sensible thing, and make her your—'

'I swear, if you say one more word—'

'You'll what?' Forte asked, still calm as you please, serenely sharpening a pen, laying out his sheets of blank musical staves, ready for notes to fill them. 'Kill me? Haven't you done that already?'

…And just like that, Adam's ire was rather abruptly taken, replaced by guilt. Forte was very good at guilt, Adam remembered that all too well. 'Do you expect an apology?'

'I _expect _nothing, Votre Majesté,' the dismissal was audible, and Adam was about to storm out in frustration, when Belle reminded them both of her presence.

**Belle**

'_I_ expect you to apologise, cher,' she said quietly, carefully. Busying herself with straightening her dress, she waited, making her face look expectant, though she didn't look up at him directly. 'But not now; I'm sure Maestro Forte has had enough company, and inspiration is fleeting.' She knew this well, she was not without art in her own blood. She swept out of the room, taking Adam's hand, and made sure to shut the door quietly. He was a bitter man, but they'd all had a long night, and he'd come back from being dead for some time. She was sure once he had written, and had a good sleep, things would be better.

**Forte**

Discipline made inspiration more than fleeting (thank you _very_ much!), and he tossed aside the interaction as he sat at the pianoforte, feeling strange as he played the notes once more. They were flat, and he sighed in annoyance; of _course_ they were flat, it had been a decade since the poor creature had any attention… he went to the cabinet for the tuning screws, and paused. Something was tugging at his mind, almost like one of his headaches, the ones that laid him low for days on end… but for it not signalling pain. What, then?

The green light was sliding through the strings of the pianoforte, and he could feel… the urge to stretch, but it wasn't _his_ urge, it was… he returned to the instrument, realised it was the urge of the _strings, _the _music_… no, vision was not helping, it was all wrong; he closed his eyes, and properly saw the notes as they stretched from flats to naturals, to sharps. Sliding hands over the pianoforte's varnished curves like a lover, Forte smiled, well and truly. _'Yes_, cherie,' he purred, _'That's_ it, that's _so much better_, isn't it?'

She _thrummed_ under his hands when he pressed her keys, as a young maiden might shiver, and Forte chuckled, sitting at the bench and beginning to play something dark and lilting, legato curls of minor keys making his vision of the music take shape in the air (though, his eyes being closed, he didn't see). More, there was something _more_ to his music now, he could drink deeply of the pool of inspiration that had been so hard-won before. What _was_ this? Was this what having magic felt like? What bliss! He actually _sighed_, opening his eyes to see the pages had filled as he'd played, as they had before—only this time, the notes _stayed_, not fading as the sound faded.

When the last notes fell away, however, his breath caught in his throat and he cringed, covering his eyes as the headache surged to life. Staggering from the bench, he felt the world turn and was suddenly on the stone floor, fighting just to breathe, his stomach threatening to turn inside out. He was used to these demon-headaches, but not like this, not this _intense_….

**Fife**

Fife knew that sound, and all thoughts of finding a secluded spot to sing were forgotten as he went to his fallen master's side with a cool cloth for his head, and closed all the windows, moved in stockinged feet with catlike tread. Speaking was forbidden when the pain came upon Forte, and Fife tried silently to coax him up, just enough to get him somewhere more comfortable. He winced at the warning rumble of the pipes, the pained cry as his master curled into a tighter ball.

The worst part about this pain was that music made it worse—Fife could only imagine what a curse that would be, to someone like Forte. Silently, he fetched a pillow from the bedroom, and the duvet, and could at least try and make his lover comfortable where he had fallen. So done, Fife went to the door, only pausing a moment; his every instinct screamed at him not to abandon the older man, but he knew what would soothe that pain, and it necessitated a personal trip to the kitchen. He only hoped they still had some.

**Potts**

The kitchen had decided—and Potts was not about to stop them—to create a feast in honour of the broken curse; but amidst the bustle of the kitchen, and the singing, Potts was the one to notice Fife slipping in. He was tall, but never seemed so, always wincing, hunched to take up less space; she noticed him—what sort of Cook would she be, if she didn't know to the last detail what happened in her kitchen? She went over to him.

'Do you need something, sir?' Being Albish, and of a long line of servants, Potts never forgot anyone's rank. Fife especially forgot that he wasn't a servant—and little wonder, with how Forte treated the poor boy! Fife startled, and gave a fleeting, nervous laugh.

'Coffee,' he answered. 'I-I don't want to be any trouble—I can just—'

'I remember how to make his coffee, sir,' but it didn't sound like 'sir' so much as 'dear', and she smiled at him. 'Why don't you sit down and rest while I get it ready?'

'Oh no, I—'

'Don't you mind about this excitement, sir. _Sit.'_

'Thank you,' he said meekly, letting her sit him down; still, he was unable to keep from worrying. Forte was Etruscan, they were particular about coffee, one of the only peoples to drink the stuff, and Fife knew it was a delicate thing, the brewing of coffee, and if it was too bitter…

But Potts knew all this worry; she'd watched Fife worry over it before, learning very quickly coffee was exactly like tea, but for the fact it must needs be ground. One of the kitchen boys helped her with that, and she quickly found the coffee pot (which assuredly did _not_ match the rest of the dishes, being black), and the matching demitasse cups. Soon she had a tray assembled, with fresh coffee and a light supper of still-warm bread and a few other things. Fife thanked her—he never forgot his manners—before going back upstairs. She hoped his nerves wouldn't make him spill the tray, she didn't look forward to the result. Coffee was never asked for while Forte was composing, which meant it was one of the times when he would shut himself up and throw things at maids for making too much noise as they dusted.

**Lumière**

Lumière sidled up next to her, polishing a spoon. 'Coffee?' he murmured. She nodded gravely. Lumière clicked his tongue in pity.

'It's a waste of a good boy,' he sighed; he knew Etruscans were passionate, he had met many of them; but he would rather the effusive and raucous sanguinity of that country, than Forte's choleric temperament. Potts only raised a brow at him, and he chuckled at her prudishness; she wasn't blind, and even a blind man could see the two musicians were fucking.

'I would think that his little accident with a boar wasted him,' was shot back; and, as ever, Potts' wit surprised him. She never showed it off, so he always forgot about it until it was, suddenly, _there_.

'Ah, you know little of such sins, madame,' he teased, starting on the next spoon, 'a little thing like that doesn't stop a determined boy, especially one so artistic. Yes, Lillet?' he broke off to address the stillroom maid.

'The perry has gone off, but there is still the mead—though,' she paused, 'it's… very strong, now.'

'We can water it,' he assured her, but put the spoon down, gesturing for her to lead him.

**Belle**

Sleep was all she really wanted, sleep and to be in the arms of another once more, someone that wasn't a father or a mother, but something altogether _else_. Belle had often read books of love stories, had asked her mother again and again to tell her the story of the queen of Argany, the Sleeping Princess; or the story of Snow White, of Krammerstang; or even the one of Aeutschland's peasant queen, Ella of the Cinders.

Nothing really spoke in those stories of the little touches that meant so much; the way Adam kissed her goodnight, how he wrapped his arms around her, how he resisted, just a little, when she tugged him into her bedroom.

'You should wait,' he protested, not wanting her to compromise her virtue, especially not after Forte's scathing comments; Belle may not have understood them, but Adam did—too well, perhaps. Peasant, she was a peasant girl, and that made him like unto Thomas—a comparison his Aquitine mind rebelled at in disgust, for Aeustchland had ever been their enemies.

'All I want to do is sleep,' she assured him, over and over, knowing this game. He was only trying to save her virtue, but Belle didn't want to let go of him, not even to sleep. What if she woke up and it had been a dream? What if he was really dead? She didn't want to risk that, and she knew what nightmares would come—she'd had them when her mother had died, lots of them.

The worst were the ones where she thought her mother was alive again.

So, she coaxed Adam to bed with her, and undressed, and fell to sleep in his arms, holding tightly to him. When she woke the next day, she was still in bed, and Adam was still alive, and there was a whole new life to begin.

* * *

**Aftnotes**

So wine made of grapes isn't a thing in this world; they use pears, which makes perry. Mead is of course from honey.

Servants! Oh god figuring out Cogsworth and Lumiere and Potts is a _nightmare_, but I have it like this: Lumiere is the Butler, who is head of the household and indoor servants; Potts is the Cook, who heads up the kitchen; Cogsworth is _a Valet_, meaning he's properly Adam's personal gentleman. Valets (and their female counterpart, the Lady's Maid) were sort of outside the household hierarchy, and sometimes weren't even of the serving class, themselves—to a royal especially. I write Cogsworth as middle-class, because there's something extremely middle-class about him, to me. Oh and Valets/Lady's Maids were like Personal Assistants, not just some guy who parks your car for you.


End file.
